Page 6 of Equalizer
Owen and Calvin entered the carriage, where Winston waited as their driver. He had a city map spread out on the driver’s seat next to him.
“Where to next?” He gave the horses a gentle tap of the reins.
Owen thought for a moment. “If the body snatchers can spirit corpses out of the largest morgue in the city, what have they been doing with the smaller ones that are probably less well-organized?”
“It begs the question of how many bodies they need and what they’re doing with them,” Calvin pointed out.
“There aren’t a whole lot of options,” Owen replied. “Either we’ve got a crazy necromancer raising an army of the dead—which I think someone would have already noticed—or they’re being used for some sort of experimentation.”
“So many?” Calvin asked. “We’ve heard of ten so far.”
Owen shrugged. “Bodies don’t keep, even if someone puts them in a refrigerator. And unless the thieves have taken to doing murder, people might not die at convenient times when a new corpse is needed. Which would explain the grave robberies.”
In addition to bodies disappearing from the City Morgue, Calvin and Owen had caught whispers of recent incidents at the paupers’ cemetery, where the thieves might have figured no one cared enough to investigate.
“Let’s check out the institutions and then the smaller hospitals,” Calvin suggested. “They probably don’t have the same level of security.” He gave Winston the name of the next place to visit.
Owen also suspected that the residents of the asylum and sanitariums might not have any family to notice their deaths or the means to raise a fuss if they did.
“I’m curious to see what use the bodies are being put to since the robbers don’t seem to be picky about the cause of death,” Calvin said as they jostled along. “For a medical school, they could make a lesson out of whatever the poor bastard died from. But usually people want their raw materials in good shape.”
“Raw materials? God, Calvin.”
“Think about it,” Calvin persisted. “Maybe it’s a crazed chemist trying to distill the elixir of life out of brains and livers or some such. I’ve heard theories that someday doctors could take an organ from one body and put it into another and have the receiving person improve.”
“From a dead body?” Owen echoed, horrified.
“Some fellow took part of a thyroid from one person and stitched it into someone else, and the guy who received it lived—and did better,” Calvin replied. “That was more than ten years ago. The research raises all kinds of uproar from the Church and plenty of ethics worries, but it’s clearly possible.”
“Damn. So what do you think? Rich people finding a match and stealing parts from poor blighters?”
Calvin shrugged. “Could be. Wouldn’t be out of character. They steal everything else.”
Owen frowned, thinking. “If there’s money involved, the Mob is usually quick to find an angle. Do you think they’re tangled up in this? Think about it—some desperate rich guy hires a mobster to find a match for whatever he needs, and the Mob delivers. Mobsters do worse than rob graves on a daily basis.”
“That’s an angle I hadn’t considered,” Calvin said. “But you’re right—the Mafia doesn’t usually miss a trick if there’s a business opportunity. If that’s true, then we need to watch our backs. They won’t like us butting in on their venture.”
They headed for Dunning Asylum. “Hold up,” Owen said sharply. Winston paused as the massive, rambling structure came into view.
Calvin gave Owen a worried look. “What’s wrong?”
Owen winced at the press of spirits around him, reaching out with empty eyes and grasping hands, warning them away and clutching at their warmth.
“So…many…ghosts,” he managed.
Calvin pressed a small bag of salt into Owen’s hands, and the ghosts receded, giving him a chance to catch his breath. “They’re warning us away,” he said a few minutes later. “Telling us that if we come here, we’ll never be allowed to leave. They weren’t.”
Everyone in Chicago had heard of Dunning Asylum. It had grown from a poorhouse to include a tuberculosis sanitarium, a hospital for the mentally ill, and a large cemetery where unclaimed bodies from the general public were sent for burial, as well as the asylum’s dead residents. Conditions were rumored to be abysmal, and adults often threatened children that they would be sent to Dunning if they misbehaved.
“That’s certainly cheery,” Calvin said. “Your call—go on or go back? The press of souls is likely to get worse.” He reached over and took Owen’s hand, hidden beneath their heavy cloaks.
Owen appreciated Calvin’s concern and took a moment to sort his impressions. The ghosts frantically cautioned them but made no move to cause harm.
“We need to talk to the asylum’s coroner,” Owen said. “This would be an ideal place for bodies to be stolen. People end up here because they have no one to look after them. No one would be asking for their remains to make arrangements when they die, either.”
The massive Kirkbride-style hospital stretched across the ridge of the next hill, with Richardson Romanesque towers and turrets like a dark mage’s castle.
“The original idea for the design was noble,” Owen mused aloud. “Trying to maximize light and air to the rooms and hallways instead of a big box. The hospitals were considered enlightened and revolutionary—but according to the reformers, the reality hasn’t lived up to the ideals.”
